


Fraternity

by Anyawen



Series: Bees 'verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Betrayal, Brotherhood, Friendship, Mentions of past drug use, secrets and stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 21:14:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4407908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John asks a question. Mycroft answers. The story he shares is painful for them both. A bit of backstory for a detail in Chapter 1 of my fic Telling the Bees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fraternity

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: All the cookies to SailOnSilvergirl, Sevenpercent, Ghyllwyne, and kate221b. All of them. Every. Single. One.

"I see you drew the short straw this time," John said as Mycroft slid into the booth across from him.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Mycroft replied.

"I don't have to be _him_ to see the pattern here. If I order a fourth pint, I get company. Greg, or Mike, generally. Sometimes it's you."

Mycroft's expression gave nothing away, until the waitress slid a glass in front of him. He looked up, surprised.

"I didn't-"

"I did. Told her someone would be joining me. If he had silver hair and a rumpled suit, she should bring a pint of bitter. Genial gent with glasses, a pint of Guinness. Posh bloke with a superfluous umbrella, a glass of their best whisky – in this case, a Glenlivet single malt – neat. Cheers."

"That's … very observant, John."

"Yeah, well, I lived with him. Learned a few things."

"Indeed. Thank you," Mycroft replied, lifting the glass to his lips.

"Must admit I was shocked the first time you showed up, after the events at the funeral. You weren't worried that I'd hit you again?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You pulled your punch."

"I did, yeah. Didn't think you'd notice, given you were laying on the ground, bleeding."

"I noticed."

"'Course you did."

"I never have been entirely sure why you refrained," Mycroft admitted, gaze moving to search the shadowy corners of the pub.

"Sentiment," John replied, bitterness colouring his tone. He smiled tightly as Mycroft's focus returned to him, puzzled and intent. He lifted his pint and took a pull at his beer

"I don't understand, John. You felt … sentiment … for me?"

"God, no. You felt sentiment. For him."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yeah, you do. You just don't like to hear that it was obvious," John replied. "To be fair, your mask was probably good enough to fool everyone else. But I've seen that look before."

"What look would that be?"

"The one that says the pain you're feeling is your own damned fault," John said, leaning forward and stabbing a finger into the table, voice low and angry. He cleared his throat and picked up his pint. "That guilt. It hides in the back of your eyes. You see it there, though, don't you? When you look in the mirror? That's where I see it, looking back at me," he said, taking a drink.

"At you? Surely not. Sherlock never had a better friend, John."

"Wasn't enough, was it?" John asked with a bitter sigh. He slumped back against the back of the booth and scrubbed his face with his hands. "He was my friend, Mycroft. He was my best friend. And I knew him. I did. I _knew_ him. But I didn't know anything _about_ him. Maybe that's why I failed him."

"You did no such thing, John."

"Didn't I? He knew everything about me within minutes, but … I didn't know. Didn't know how to help him. Everything I know about him comes from you, one way or another."

"Oh?"

"It was you that told me he wanted to be a pirate," John said, unable to keep his lips from twitching up into smile, amused in spite of the lingering resentment he felt at having learned this bit about his friend from Mycroft.

"I don't think he ever really grew out of that, to be honest."

John smiled, and ducked his head. He was quiet for a minute, watching a drop of condensation as it slid down the side of his glass. He caught it with a finger and traced random patterns on the table with the moisture. When he looked up again, his gaze was determined, almost defiant.

"Tell me something you didn't tell Moriarty." It wasn't a request.

Mycroft pursed his lips, clearly unwilling. John's stare didn't waver as he watched the other man consider his options. There was nothing to be gained from telling John a dead man's secrets, but surely there was nothing to lose, either?

John saw the moment when Mycroft yielded. The shift was more atmospheric than physical, felt rather than seen. Mycroft lifted his glass for a drink while John considered what question to ask.

"All those danger nights you warned me to watch for. Where did they start? When did he start taking drugs? Why?"

Mycroft set his glass back down with a thunk. John was shocked to see a haunted look flash over his features. His surprise must have been evident. Mycroft looked away, focusing on his half-empty glass. He cleared his throat.

"He would have said that it was my fault."

"Was it?"

"Indirectly, perhaps. Yes."

"Well, that was the York Notes version."

"Excuse me?"

"A summary, Mycroft, of an obviously much longer story."

"Much too long to tell over a drink," Mycroft agreed.

"There is a rather obvious solution to that, you know," John replied.

"Indeed. It is, however, not a topic I care to discuss further in such a public setting."

"Or at all, really," John observed.

"True."

"But you will."

"Much to my own astonishment, it appears that I will," Mycroft said, picking his glass up again.

They drank in a surprisingly easy silence. Anticipation and apprehension crowded at them, but they neither hurried nor delayed as they finished their drinks. John went to the bar to settle the tab while Mycroft went outside to call the car. When John joined him outside they had only a moment to feel the chill of the evening air before the limo pulled up to the kerb.

John settled into the back of the car opposite Mycroft and watched the other man very obviously not fidget with the handle of his umbrella as they pulled into traffic. Mycroft's head was turned slightly away, toward the window, but his focus was clearly turned inward. John watched him, noting with sadness the similarities between Mycroft and Sherlock. He sighed.

"Sherlock was always prone to over-reacting. The drugs started because he lost someone important to him," Mycroft said without turning away from the window.

John swallowed hard. He looked down, trying absorb the idea of Sherlock distraught over someone's death. It must have been someone quite special. He tried to hide the way the news unsettled him, and knew that he couldn't.

"I see," he said tightly.

"You don't. Not yet." Mycroft replied.

John looked up to find Mycroft watching him. Disquiet gave way to irritation. "Right. Okay. Tell me the rest, then. You said he'd blame you. What's your connection? How was this loss _your fault?_ "

Mycroft sighed heavily. He took a deep breath and shifted in his seat until he was sitting up straight and facing John. John met his gaze fiercely.

"Our family has a long history working with rather sensitive operations within the British Government. For a time, Sherlock joined us as an employee in Her Majesty's service."

"Sherlock? Really?" John asked incredulously, shocked out of his irritation by the idea. He caught Mycroft's somber look and sobered. As amusing as the apparent non sequitur might be, it was part of a larger, far more serious story.

"When he was twenty-two, Sherlock spent eight months working as an analyst examining data received from our operatives. Finding discrepancies, making connections. He was quite good at it."

"He would be," John agreed, a hint of pride in his tone.

"In the course of his work he noticed an inconsistency in a report from an agent in the Balkans. Upon investigation he realized that our man had been compromised. He brought the information to me and urged me to recall the operative."

"But you didn't."

"No, I did not. Pulling him out would have exposed a dozen others, putting them, and the mission, at risk."

"The mission. Of course."

"The mission, yes. A rescue operation meant to expose a human trafficking ring and recover the victims safely."

John nodded, accepting the rebuke. Still, though ...

"Sherlock would have known that," John protested. "He would have weighed their lives in the balance, yeah? So there was more to it. There must have been."

Mycroft said nothing, just looked at John with a vaguely impatient air. John almost smiled at the familiarity of the expression. He had all the information, then, and just had to put it together. John considered. The pieces fell into place.

"This agent. He was the one you meant. The one Sherlock lost."

"Indeed. They were always very close. Thick as thieves, as the saying goes."

"Who was he?" John asked, voice low and careful, but insistent.

"He was … important."

"Must have been," John agreed evenly, "if his death pushed Sherlock to using drugs."

John saw pain in the faint tightening of Mycroft's already tense posture. Understanding hovered just out of reach. Somehow, this agent was significant to Mycroft for more than just his place in the story of Sherlock's descent into drug use. There was something else.

"The skull on the mantel at Baker Street came from him," Mycroft said, interrupting John's thoughts. "It was the last thing he gave Sherlock, just before leaving on his mission. A graduation gift. Meant to compliment, and, I suspect, overshadow, the painting I had commissioned as my gift."

"Painting?"

"The blue skull. Macabre, to suit his interests, but … tasteful."

"It is that, I suppose. Beautiful, if ghoulish," John admitted. "But – you two coordinated your gifts? And he turned it into some sort of competition? Upstaging you with a skull? That's an unusual sort of rivalry."

"On the contrary, it was the most common sort."

"Oh," John said with a sinking feeling. "He was-"

"Our brother, yes. Ford."

“Oh, bloody buggering fuck.” Shock and heartache flooded through him, almost drowning out the flash of relief - chased immediately by guilt – that prickled over his skin.

"Indeed," Mycroft said, sagging back into his seat and scrubbing a hand along his face.

John knew the answer before he asked the question, but he asked anyway, hoping that just this once, Sherlock had been wrong.

"Ford's cover was blown?"

"Yes. He was discovered. Arrested, tortured and executed. Sherlock blamed me. It took many years for him to reconcile my actions regarding Ford. To allow that sacrifices must be made, and that it will always be someone's brother, or lover, or daughter. Our personal misfortune allowed a dozen others to come home safely, the mission completed successfully with just the one casualty."

"Is there anyone you won't sacrifice, Mycroft?"

"There is, actually. Unfortunately, it is not within my power to keep him from sacrificing himself."

"I- what? Who?"

"It's no one for you to concern yourself with, John. Such action is always a last resort. One that I am actively working to prevent."

"Oh. Good. Right," John said. His head was full with the information Mycroft had shared, and his heart ached. The idea that there was still someone out there about whom Mycroft cared – and cared enough to try to keep them from harm … Well. That was good, wasn't it? John wrestled with the bitterness that crawled up his throat at the fact that Sherlock hadn't been worth that effort.

They sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts as the lights of London moved past the windows. Mycroft shifted, and John's attention returned to him.

"Sherlock walked out of the office and disappeared the day we received the video of Ford's execution. He went to ground in London, using tricks and training to stay off our radar. He didn't come to the funeral. Our parents were so worried for Sherlock they hardly seemed to mourn Ford," Mycroft replied. "It was almost five months before I found him."

"And?" John asked, dread in his stomach.

"He was high."

"Shit," John muttered. "Cocaine?"

"That came later, when he was looking for clarity. His first drug of choice was heroin. He refused to discuss it with me, but his therapist's notes suggest that he was frustrated at an inability to think. That he was distracted by the dual shocks of loss and perceived betrayal, and sought a means to quiet his emotional response in order to regain the capacity for thought. Unfortunately, addiction claimed him before he found the clarity he sought."

"Yeah," John said faintly. "So, his brother – _your brother_ – died, and he got high to get numb. What happened then? After you found him?"

"As you might predict, he declined the option of a rehab centre."

"I don't imagine you let that stop you."

"Not for long, no. But it didn't help. Not the first time. Nor the second. Not until after the overdose."

"Oh, God. Was it-" John broke off, breathing hard.

"Intentional?" Mycroft suggested calmly. "No, I don't believe it was."

"That's. That's good, then," John said, left hand clenched against a tremor that wouldn't stop.

"Very good, yes," Mycroft agreed. "I was out of the country at the time, and it took time to wrap things up and return. By the time I arrived he had already made arrangements to be discharged from hospital directly into a treatment facility."

" _He_ did?"

"Indeed. It seems that he'd found motivation in an offer from your Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"The Work."

"Yes."

"I see."

"Yes. Now you do," Mycroft agreed.

"Yeah," John said tiredly. He looked out the window and nodded. "Well. I think I'll just get out here."

"We're nearly to Ealing now ..."

"No, it's fine. Here's good. I'll get back the rest of the way on my own."

"As you like, John."

John didn't wait for the driver to open the door. As soon as the car stopped at the kerb he'd thrown the door open and stepped out. He turned back, leaning down to rest his arm along the roof of the car as he peered in to see Mycroft.

"As much as I appreciate you answering my question, I don't think I can do this again. I think it's best if you avoid the short straw."

"I shall endeavor to be too busy in the future."

"Good," John said with a decisive nod. He stepped back and closed the door and watched it pull out into the sparse night traffic before turning to walk away into the dark.


End file.
